“Awful, isn’t it?” she said, glancing around the room. She wrinkled a slightly snub nose dusted with freckles. “But Aunt Darla just loves it. I gave her that for Christmas.” She nodded at a wreath of dried flowers and herbs hanging between the stove and a refrigerator plastered with photos. “You couldn’t pay me to hang that in my dorm room, but it’s so her.”
“So . . . you were Braden’s cousin?” I asked.
“Sorry!” She offered a hand. “I’m Catelyn Allen. My folks and I are staying here to help . . . to take care of the place while Aunt Darla and Uncle Ed are . . . away.”
“Oh.” I took a cookie from the tray when she pushed it at me. “So you’re not from around here?”
“Nah. We’re in Virginia. Actually, I’m a sophomore at UVA, but I got an okay from my professors to take a couple of weeks off after what happened to Braden. It was so awful. Why would anyone want to hurt a really nice kid like him? I mean, Braden’s just about the nicest person I know, even if he is my cousin.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said, noticing that she was still using the present tense when she talked about Braden. Poor girl. The past tense must seem so final.
“Thank you. It’s just awful.” Catelyn sniffed and fumbled with the tray, and I reached out to steady it.
“I should go,” I said. “I just stopped by to give the McCullerses my condolences.”
“You don’t need to go,” Catelyn said, clearly happy to have company. “At least finish your cookie. And I’ll go get the list of people who’ve come by so you can put your name on it. I’m trying to keep track for Aunt Darla and Uncle Ed. Everyone’s been so kind. One lady brought a coffee cake yesterday that was absolutely scrumptious. Cream cheese crumbles and cherries.”
Before I could say anything, she whisked out of the kitchen. Left alone, I nibbled on the cookie and examined the photos on the fridge. Braden’s senior portrait was front and center. Clad in his letter jacket, he smiled straight at me, making me want to smile back. I swallowed a lump in my throat and looked at photos of what I assumed were assorted relatives and friends. A young couple in wedding garb kissed in one photo, kids splashed in the surf in another—it didn’t look like the Georgia coastline—a baby posed in a Santa hat on a Christmas postcard, and a younger Braden, his arm around a buddy’s neck, stared from a snapshot. The boys looked to be twelve or thirteen and wore matching tee shirts with a name and a logo printed on them, like summer campers. I was peering at the last photo, wondering if the second kid could really be Mark Crenshaw—hadn’t his family only moved here two or three years ago?—when Catelyn came back with a clipboard.
“That’s my sister Jessica,” she said, wrongly assuming I was looking at the bride. “I was her maid of honor in August. I wore a strapless dress in a heavenly shade of blue and danced all night with the best man. Alexander. We really hit it off, but he’s a Husky, so we haven’t seen each other since, although we talk every night and text all the time. I’m trying to find a summer job in the Seattle area for next year, maybe at a camp or a resort.”
I let her words drift past me. “What about this photo?” I asked. “Isn’t that Mark Crenshaw with Braden?”
“Oh, yeah, they’ve been best friends ever since they met at whatever that place was called. It was in South Carolina.”
The camp’s name didn’t interest me and I arched my brows, inviting her to continue. “Braden was over the moon when it turned out Mark’s dad was getting stationed down here, Aunt Darla said. Mark came with them when they visited us—well, they were really visiting historic sites in Virginia—last summer, and he seemed nice enough, even though all they talked about was football, football, football. Bor-ing.” She rolled her eyes.
Knitting my brows, I wondered if this bit of information changed anything. I couldn’t see how it made any difference. Catelyn thrust the clipboard at me and I wrote my name at the end of a long list of names, mostly women, who had dropped off meals, cards, and flowers for the bereaved family. “I’d really like to know when the funeral is,” I said, sliding the clipboard onto the counter.
Catelyn bit her lip. “I don’t know when . . . but, absolutely. A funeral . . . Isn’t it just awful?”
“Yes,” I agreed, starting for the door.
“You don’t have to go yet, do you?” she asked, trailing after me. Some of the bounce had gone from her voice and I wondered how uncomfortable it must feel to be alone in a relatively strange house when a cousin even younger than you had been murdered. He hadn’t died in the house, but still. His room was probably right down the hall, chock-full of books he’d never read and sports equipment he’d never use and clothes he’d never wear. I hoped her parents got back soon. “It was nice meeting you,” I said at the door.